The Woods Path
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: While on a brief holiday in the country, Sherlock attempts to solve a ninety year old case.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story was commissioned by oneofthoselunatics on tumblr for the Sherlock Committee Fic Auction. She asked me to write a Sugarverse story using "The Musgrave Ritual" as inspiration, in which she specified a casefic in the country and a derelict castle. I used that as my starting point, and this is the end result.

Although it's set in Sugarverse, it's not necessary to have read the entire series to read this. It's set in 2028, which puts Sherlock at 50 and John at 55 if I did the internal math for the series properly.

This is a slightly different type of casefic than I normally write. I wanted to keep it closer to the original style of story - shorter and almost more introspective. Enjoy!

* * *

"Explain to me again why this was a good idea."

John took his eyes from the road for a brief moment, lips pulling into a smile at the irritated and affronted look on Sherlock's features.

"It was _your_ idea," he pointed out. "Are you admitting to having a bad one?"

"I never have bad ideas," Sherlock retorted. "The weather, on the other hand, does."

"You could ask Mycroft to do something about it," John joked, grinning at Sherlock's derisive scoff. "Or wait for it to clear up overnight, which it's meant to. And anyway, it's not that bad."

The faint squeak of the wipers on the glass was intermittent, and John was privately glad for the light rain. It would freshen everything, strengthen the greens of the grasses and leaves, and he wanted to see the potential properties in all their splendour. Sherlock would be able to imagine them perfectly even if they weren't at their peak, but John preferred to see the real thing.

He followed the sat nav's instructions and pulled into a drive, killing the humming engine. Sherlock clambered out, not deigning to help with their overnight bags, flipping the collar of his coat up and subjecting the house and the small grounds to a penetrating glare. John let him, rescuing their bags from the boot, and didn't wait for his husband to follow toward the door. Sherlock's long strides caught him up as the bell was chiming distantly inside the house.

A smiling woman whom John pegged as closer to Sherlock's age than his own greeted them, ushering them into the warmth and out of the rain. He took the instruction to put their bags down in the hall, taking in what he could as their jackets were hung in the closet. The cottage was larger than he'd imagined, and the colours and smells made it seem cozier and more homey than he'd expected from the pictures online. He'd picked it in part because it hadn't seemed overstuffed with kitschy decorations, and the single small table with a simple vase of flowers in the entry way reassured him he'd chosen well.

"I'm Sarah, of course," their host said as John reclaimed their bags, following her down the narrow corridor. "Andrew's just out in the garden, which is round back – feel free to use it once the rain lets up. Breakfast is six-thirty to eight-thirty, but if you need anything before then, just give a shout. I'll put on a kettle once I've shown you your room. Through there," she nodded at a set of curtained French windows opened wide to reveal a small room lined with bookcases and lit by small fire behind an ornate grate, "is the guest sitting room. The dining room is just off to your right. You're the only ones here this weekend, so you've got the run of the place. Here we are."

The bedroom was at the end of the corridor, looking out into the rain-dampened garden behind the house. It was smaller than theirs at Baker Street but – John admitted privately – much neater and better decorated. An antique trunk rested against the foot of a large bed that was bracketed on either side by lamps whose warm yellow light glowed off the dark polished wood of the bedside tables.

The trunk resounded quietly with a hollow _thunk-thunk_ as he set the bags down, glad to be free of their weight. He considered putting Sherlock in charge of unpacking, but re-evaluated the decision – the detective would simply wait it out until John lost patience and did it himself.

Opposite the bed was an open door leading to the ensuite, pale tile separated from the carpeted floor by a thin strip of marble. He wondered if there was a bathtub and poked his head in to check, a smile crossing his lips. The idea of settling into a hot bath with Sherlock on a rainy day held a lot of appeal.

"There are more blankets in the trunk if you need them," Sarah said. "And two more sets of towels in the wardrobe. I'll get started on the tea. Biscuits?"

"Chocolate HobNobs if you've got them," John replied, not missing the faint smirk that crossed Sherlock's lips.

"We do," Sarah replied. "Andrew's a big fan. Shall I bring it up?"

"In the sitting room would be fine," Sherlock said before John could answer. Grey eyes flickered to him, impassive except the barest hint of a question, and John gave a slight shrug. He wasn't surprised Sherlock wanted to examine the library. A quiet cuppa next to the fire was almost as good as long soak with his husband. There would be plenty of time for that after dinner.

"It'll be ready in a jiff," Sarah promised.

"We'll be down in a few minutes," John replied. She flashed him a smile and was gone, the bedroom door clicking shut quietly behind her.

* * *

John settled on something quickly and made himself comfortable in an oversized armchair next to the fire as Sherlock browsed the shelves, fingertips roaming over paper spines, pulling a book out here and there to give it a cursory investigation.

John left him to it; Sherlock was clearly more interested in examining the room but the doctor intended to enjoy the country weekend as fully as he could. The tea was hot and perfectly sweetened, and it was no great chore to convince Sherlock to take a cup with a few HobNobs. The silence of the room only accented by the crackling of the fire and the occasional _clink_ as Sherlock picked something up or set it down.

John glanced up at the sound of the writing desk in the corner being uncovered, giving Sherlock a look over the tops of his glasses that was completely ignored. His husband perused the drawers and flicked through the books on the desk; John rolled his eyes but with a fond smile and went back to his book.

It was the sudden absence of noise and movement that made him look up again. A frown of concentration creased Sherlock's features, eyes narrowed as he studied a yellowed page through his half-moon glasses. John marked his page with a finger, clearing his throat lightly.

"If they meant for it to be private, it wouldn't be in the common sitting room," Sherlock replied without looking up. John sighed quietly but conceded the point.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock murmured. John raised his eyebrows in surprise – that wasn't a phrase he was used to hearing from his husband's lips. He awaited an explanation that obviously wasn't forthcoming; after a minute, he put his book and side and joined Sherlock, peering over the detective's shoulder.

The yellowed page turned out to be two, filled by a neat but utterly incomprehensible scrawl. Where John's mind tried to find familiar words or patterns there was none, just a very well organized mess of letters, initials, and symbols. Sherlock flipped the first page over, and more of the same greeted them on the reserve.

"Shorthand?" John asked.

"Not a standardized one," Sherlock replied.

"Could be a code."

"Obviously," his husband murmured, shuffling the second page to the front. "A coded letter?"

"No date," John observed.

"Not that we can discern. Nor an addressee or author. Old, too – early part of the last century judging from the condition of the paper and the penmanship. What is this?"

The last was to Sarah, who had appeared in the doorway, looking slightly startled by the abrupt question. She took the sheets from Sherlock extended, features relaxing into a smile again.

"Andy's been at it again," she commented, a note of fondness slipping into her voice. "You know, my family's had this since the late thirties and no one's been able to decipher it, but he does love to tinker with it. He swears one day he'll get it. I can't imagine anyone ever will."

John didn't miss the cocked eyebrow or the sudden interested piqued in Sherlock's expression.

"A letter?" Sherlock asked.

"Well we think so," Sarah replied. "It belonged to my grandmother's brother, as far as we know."

"I take it there's a good reason no one asked him?" John enquired.

"Very good," Sarah said, giving him a smile. "He ran off in nineteen thirty-seven, when he was oh – seventeen or eighteen if I remember right. Left almost everything behind, including this. We've no idea what it means."

"Ran off?" John asked. "Why?"

"We're not entirely sure about that, either. He left a letter – a legible one – but it's vague on the details. I've got it upstairs, unless Andy moved it. Won't be a moment."

* * *

By the time Sarah returned, Sherlock had rearranged some of the furniture to his liking, sitting across from John with the low coffee table between them. Sarah made no comment on the reorganization but passed Sherlock the new letter to spread out on the table next to the coded one.

It was much shorter, only a handful of lines, and from what John could see with it upside down, seemed to have been written much more hastily, as though the author had been pressed for time. Sherlock's eyes flickered over it quickly before he spun it toward John.

_My dearest Elizabeth,_ he read, squinting faintly at the faded writing, _It pains me to have to leave like this, but this is the only way I may say good-bye. What I've done cannot be forgiven and if I stay, it will bring nothing but shame to our family. I cannot do that – not to Father and Mother, and certainly not to you. I'll not have you living in the shadow of my crime. Please know that I am sorry and I love you, all of you. Do not worry about me; I know where I'm going, and I will be well. Although it does not seem it, this is for the best._

_Your loving brother, Henry_

John reread it quickly, frowning as he looked at Sarah.

"What did he do?"

"I did say it was vague on the details," she replied with a slight smile. "That was the last my grandmother ever heard from him. There was an investigation, of course, but with the constabulary of a small village…" She trailed off with a shrug. "My grandmother did hire a private detective in the fifties, hoping for some news of him after the war, but nothing ever came of it."

"How lucky for you that you have a consulting detective now," Sherlock murmured.

"Sherlock," John sighed. "We have appointments with the realtor."

"A ninety year old crime, John! Examining a few cottages can wait – this is _much_ more interesting. Look here," he said to Sarah before John could even draw a breath to voice further protest, "these weren't written by the same person. This one is similar, but more confident with the pen."

"I always wondered about that," Sarah said, sinking into a chair to examine what Sherlock was indicating. "I thought it might be because Henry's letter was written so quickly."

"Yes on first glance it might appear that way," Sherlock agreed. "But look here, the way he or she loops the o's – your great uncle doesn't do that. This is someone who was more comfortable with writing, either better educated or relied on it professionally. Possibly both."

"You can't tell if it's a man or a woman?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "You've said female handwriting is quite distinctive."

"It is if it's typically female," Sherlock agreed. "This… could be either. Very precise, very neat despite the code and the fact that we can't read it. An unrecognizable shorthand might mean a personal one, and who used shorthand back then?"

"Secretaries, I should think," Sarah replied.

"Exactly. Almost guaranteed to be a woman in that case, but no need to jump to conclusions. Did anyone else leave the village at the time your great uncle did? Particularly anyone female around the same age?"

"Give me some credit for my age," Sarah said with a chuckle. "I don't know. My grandmother never mentioned it. I'm sure if Henry ran off with a local girl, that would have been the talk of the town. And it's hardly a crime, even if she were pregnant or older."

"If she was married, it would have been a scandal," Sherlock mused, "Although hardly enough of one to warrant being called a crime. Theft? Murder?"

"I don't know," Sarah repeated. "But there are some people you could talk to tomorrow. No one who remembers, of course, but older than me and might know more from their parents or grandparents. There are community records, too." She shrugged lightly. "Might be worth a look."

"I need a map of the area," Sherlock said. "Preferably not a tourist one."

"Andy's got some," Sarah replied. "I'll fetch them."

"And him," Sherlock added. "If he's made any progress with the coded letter, I need to know what it is. See his notes."

"Anything else?" Sarah asked, catching John's eye, the smile offsetting the dry note in her voice. Sherlock hesitated, glancing at John, who sat back in his chair and spread his hands with silent acquiescence. If he really pushed it, Sherlock would drop the case and stick to their original plans – and he'd be sulking, distracted, and unbearable the entire weekend.

Besides, John had to admit to himself, there _was_ something about the coded letter that was far more intriguing than examining foundations and evaluating living spaces.

"Dinner," Sherlock said. "We'll pay, of course."

"You'll have to be happy with what we're having," Sarah replied, folding her arms loosely. Sherlock made a dismissive noise – it didn't matter at all to him, so John nodded.

"That'll be fine. Thank you."

"I'll go get Andy. He'll be thrilled – give him half the chance, he'll talk your ear off about that letter. If you manage to solve that, you'll be a hero in his books."


	2. Chapter 2

"Was this where they lived?"

"What?" Sarah asked. "Oh, no. We bought this place in 'sixteen. They had a small farm just outside the village."

"Show me on the map," Sherlock said. Sarah took the proffered pen, pressing the end to her lips as she thought.

"Around here," she replied, making a small, neat circle. "The land was sold off before I was born and most of the buildings are gone, but I think you could still find the cottage's foundation. Is it important?"

"It could be," Sherlock said. "Whoever sent this letter obviously knew your great uncle, and they must have been corresponding for some time for him to know the code. There may be reference in there to nearby places or landmarks. What about these woods?"

"Marion Wood," Sarah said. "It's close enough to see from where the farm was, and it would have been bigger back then. There's nothing much in there – some of the local kids build forts in the trees, but that's it, really."

"When was the last time you were there?"

"On the farm?" Sarah sat back with a sigh, expression distant and pensive. "Oh, I must have been about ten. My father used to take my brother and I up there some weekends to poke around, see if we could find anything interesting."

"And did you?"

"A small brooch once, but I don't think it was very old. Probably dropped by some teenager out there fooling around. Other than that… old nails, a broken plate. My grandmother took or sold everything when she moved. She had no interest in being a farmer, and with Henry gone, there was no one to pass it on to."

"Who owns it now?"

"I'm not sure," Sarah replied with a quick shake of her head. "I think it's been sold a couple of times since then. There's a hiking trail that cuts across the property, though, so there's no problem with going out to look around."

Sherlock met John's eyes across the table.

"It seems we'll be looking at cottages this weekend after all," he commented.

"The ruined foundations of old houses," John said with a grin. "Not exactly what I had in mind for a retirement home."

"We're hardly retired yet," Sherlock replied. "And what better place to begin solving a mystery? We'll leave immediately after breakfast."

* * *

The last of the night's rain and the morning dew clung to the cuffs of John's jeans as he brushed past ankle-high grass. Sherlock strode ahead of him, movements confident even without the map, standing out starkly against greens and golds subdued by a wispy mist.

The woods were visible in the distance, rising up to a low peak on which John thought he could see old buildings. He frowned at the map, shaking his head when Sherlock enquired as to what they were.

"I don't know," he said. "It's not on here."

"Our next stop then," Sherlock replied as John fell into step again behind him. It was a matter of a couple of minutes before they reached where the farm had been, the contours delineated by small piles of rock and greying, errant boards half hidden in the grass.

"Here," Sherlock said, breath hanging momentarily in front of his face.

"Not much space," John commented, circling what remained of the cottage's foundation – broken lines of stone, more absent than present. He tried to imagine the outlines of the rooms, where a door might have been that lead inside, how to follow a corridor leading to a kitchen or a sitting room.

"Most likely two storeys," Sherlock murmured in reply. "Bedrooms upstairs."

John nodded, checking the map again as Sherlock turned slowly on the spot in the middle of the ruined house.

"We'll need to see an older map today," Sherlock commented. "Those woods were closer, but how much so?"

"Do you think they're important?"

"Could be – even now, they're easily visible from here. It wouldn't be difficult for someone living here to get there reliably, and they provide good cover."

"Good place to meet an accomplice?" John suggested.

"And to hide something you don't want found," Sherlock replied.

"Seems a bit grim."

"Whatever he did was enough to drive him from his home and family with only the barest of good-byes to his sister. Wasn't heard from again. Not exactly supportive of his innocence."

"It was 1937," John pointed out. "He could have died in the war."

"I did consider that," Sherlock replied, giving him a don't-be-an-idiot look, which made a grin stretch across John's face. His husband pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket, slipped them over his nose, and beckoned for the map.

John poked around as Sherlock studied the landscape, brushing his fingers through damp grass here and there along the ruined outlines of the old cottage. It – and the farm buildings – had been deliberately taken down; there was no way they could have completely collapsed and vanished that quickly. It made sense, he supposed. A faint circle of longer grass defined the area in which the buildings had stood, and presumably whoever owned the land wanted as much useable soil as possible.

A few shards of brown glass and a disintegrating beer can matted into the grass spoke to the old cottage's occasional use. There was no evidence of any small fires – but there had to be better places around here for that sort of thing. There was no shelter here, and the exposure meant any fire could be easily seen.

"Let's go for a walk in the woods, shall we?" Sherlock suggested, passing back the map. John pocketed it; it would be of little use while they were in the trees, and he had a suspicion that the top of the hill with its mystery buildings was his husband's ultimate goal. He wished passingly that they had a compass, but Sherlock's sense of direction was unerring, even when removed from the city streets he knew by heart.

_Besides_, John thought, _we're headed up hill. How hard could that be?_

The distance to the woods was deceptive – with the low, rolling hills, the trees seemed closer than they were as he and Sherlock cut a path through the field. John wondered if there were distant eyes on them, but couldn't see any houses from where they were, and didn't have a prickling warning sensation on the back of his neck. If anyone _was_ watching them, they probably didn't care too much.

The trees swallowed them from any hypothetical eyes, the sound and light changing as they stepped into the woods. The March branches were still bare, giving everything a stark, skeletal appearance, but John thought that even at mid-summer the spaces would still be fairly open. Here and there he saw faint evidence of paths cutting through the underbrush, either animals or children – or both.

He was surprised at how still the air was compared to the fields, where the breeze had danced and fluttered unfettered. There was a silence he hadn't been expecting, and hadn't even realized the light wind had been providing a low background noise until it was gone. The light shifted around the trees, through branches, growing stronger as the sun began to burn off the morning mist.

They picked their way more carefully now, neither of them accustomed to the uneven ground. Sherlock's long coat snagged here and there but he didn't seem to notice, examining the trees, pausing to scan toward the canopy. John noticed a tree fort, pointed it out, but Sherlock had already seen it.

"Here," the detective murmured, stopping short beside what appeared to be just another tree. He spotted the carvings only when Sherlock ran an index finger down one. They looked old, two sets of short parallel lines.

"Two and two?" John suggested. "Four?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes roaming the trees nearby.

"Take a picture," he said. John pulled out his phone, getting close enough to capture the lines and Sherlock's hand caging them for scale.

"Look for more nearby," his husband ordered. "It's unlikely we've stumbled upon the only one of these here."

They moved apart in a rough circle, examining grey-brown trunks until the investigation brought them together again, John shaking his head as he raked a hand through his hair. Sherlock's eyes followed his movements, giving him a gentle glare, and John chuckled as dishevelled locks were fussed back into place.

"Nothing here."

"We haven't seen any coming in, so coming from the house up top seems logical."

"That's a house up there?" John asked. "How do you know?"

"On top of a hill in the middle of farmland just outside a village? Of course it's a house. A manor, probably, and abandoned, which is why it's not marked on the modern maps." John's chin was caught between Sherlock's thumb and forefinger, his eyes subject to a penetrative scowl. "Honestly, John, you need your vision checked again."

"My eyes are fine," John sighed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Not everyone has creepily accurate vision to go along with their creepily high intelligence."

"That's hardly a medical term," Sherlock sniffed. "And it's not my fault if you don't pay attention."

"Why should I?" John asked, folding his arms loosely. "That's what I've got you for. Well, that and the fantastic sex."

"Using me for my body," Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Your mind, too," John said. "I like the whole package."

"Remind me again why I put up with you?"

"Because no one else would."

"Put up with you? Quite right. There's another one."

"Oi!" John protested as Sherlock shot him a grin and strode away, his gait a little less graceful as he crossed the uneven ground.

By the time John managed to catch up with him, breathing a little heavier than he'd like, Sherlock had moved on, a black blur against the winter brown. John grimaced at his husband's back and took another snapshot with his phone. The carved impression was the same – two sets of faded parallel lines in the bark.

"In line towards the house! I was right!" Sherlock called. John rolled his eyes and hurried on; this time, Sherlock deigned to wait.

"Should we check to see where they lead to the farmhouse?"

"No reason to assume they would," Sherlock replied, and John was a little gratified to hear a faint breathlessness in his husband's voice as well. He couldn't be getting old, he argued to himself, if Sherlock was feeling it, too. "This may have nothing to do with Henry and his letter. We have no idea if they're from the same time."

"They look old," John pointed out.

"Exposed to wind and weather? Of course they do. What if they were made five years after his disappearance? Or five years before?"

"Then why are we following them?"

"Because they lead up hill and that's where I want to go."

"Bit of a coincidence," John mused, falling into step behind his husband as Sherlock led them unerringly toward the next marked tree.

"Life is built on coincidences, John. Without them, we wouldn't be here. Do you need me to slow down?"

"I need you to shut it," John replied, sending a mock glower at the cheeky glint in Sherlock's eyes. "Not my fault there's no pavement here."

"It seems to me that must have been in short supply in Afghanistan."

"And had this been fifteen years ago, I'd still be used to it."

"The city's spoiled you."

"Yep, all that running through dark alleys and across rooftops in the pouring rain. It's definitely made me soft," John agreed with a smirk. But he didn't complain when Sherlock slowed his pace, and privately thought that it wasn't just for his benefit.

Their steady progress was halted briefly at the top of the hill by a high stone wall stretching around the old grounds. It was the work of only a few minutes to find a place where the wild ivy growing unchecked and the weather had broken the rock enough for them to scramble over.

It _was_ a house in the near distance, separated from them by a lawn overgrown into a meadow and scraggly hedges that had spread up and out when left to their own devices. The curving drive looked like it had never been paved, but the gravel that crunched beneath the soles of their shoes had been mostly overrun by weeds. The exterior of the house itself was almost completely obscured by ivy – John had the impression some of it must have been grown deliberately, but windows were now covered, and green vines snaked up and across the crumbling roof. Only the front door had been hastily cleared, and probably by hand, judging by the rough breaks and the trailing strands of leaves that had been left hanging instead of cut aside.

Sherlock eased the door and peered inside. Apparently satisfied, he cocked his head at John and slipped in, leaving the doctor to follow. John blinked in the relative dimness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light that made it through the ivy and grime-covered windows.

The emptiness shocked him; he'd expected a house like this left to ruin to contain the last evidence of occupation – furniture and carpets and artwork abandoned to moulder and decay with the building. A testament to a hasty retreat, but whoever had lived here hadn't simply walked out and never come back. The house had been closed down, everything that could be removed had been.

The floor was thick with dust scuffed in the shape of overlapping footprints where the entry led off to either side into large rooms, their doors open or hanging precariously from rusting hinges. Along the walls, the dust wasn't disturbed save for one corner that had been designated the rubbish dump – there were small piles of beer cans and bottles, as well as wrappers and other debris. It was somehow disconcerting, and he wondered what the former owners would have thought to know their home had been reduced to this.

Sherlock went to the left, into what had probably been a sitting room or parlour – whatever the proper term was. John could still make out the traces on the floor where a large carpet had been, and on the walls where framed paintings or photographs had hung. The difference in the colours had faded with both time and dust, obscuring them but not erasing them.

There were a handful of camping lanterns scattered across the floor and an old broom propped in a corner. Evidently the kids who came up here made the place more comfortable. The dust wasn't as thick here and a few telltale impressions made him think that some of the visitors were bringing camping chairs.

"We'd have killed for a place like this when I was a kid," he joked, seeing Sherlock's lips twitch in response.

"What did you have to make do with?" Sherlock asked.

"Small woods with a dead-end road. The police knew where it was too, though."

"I imagine they're aware of this place, too."

"And probably never bother with it," John replied.

"Very likely not," Sherlock murmured in agreement, pacing the length of the room slowly, eyes skimming the walls and ceilings. John left him to it, wandering back into the main hall and the room opposite. It had clearly been a library or a study, judging by the floor-to-ceiling shelves that seemed starkly empty, like skeletons of their former selves. There was some debris here and there that indicated the kids used this room, too.

A creak in the hall got his attention; John hurried back into the foyer to see Sherlock balancing carefully on a stair, testing its weight. The banister of the curving staircase was broken more places than not as it curved up toward the shadowed dimness of the second floor.

"Those aren't structurally sound!" John hissed.

"I can tell," Sherlock replied.

"Then get off! What do you think would be up there anyway? The floor's probably rotted through in places!"

"Partially, anyway," Sherlock agreed, jumping back down the four steps more nimbly than a fifty year old man had any right to. "I wasn't intending to go further than that."

John sighed, shoulders sagging slightly in relief.

"I don't know what you expect to find here anyway," he said.

"My expectations are irrelevant, since there's nothing here _to_ find. Back to the car. We're not going to learn anything here."


	3. Chapter 3

"What is the house on the hill?"

John smirked slightly; Sherlock, with the map, the letters, and John's phone spread out on the table in front of him, hadn't even deigned to look up when Sarah appeared with their tea. He accepted a cup from her with a murmured thanks and a smile, which she returned warmly.

"What house?" she asked. "Oh – do you mean the graveyard?"

Sherlock caught his eye briefly, the same question John had reflected in their grey depths, then gave his head a shake as he looked up at their host.

"I didn't see a graveyard," he replied.

"No," Sarah said, features relaxing into another smile. "Sorry, that's the local nickname. The old manor house at the top of the hill, the one in ruins? Used to be owned by a family named Graves – it probably still is, as far as I know. The council tried for years to get the National Trust to buy it and fix it up, but I can't imagine they'd want to go to all that trouble."

"What happened to them? The Graves?"

"I'm not sure," Sarah replied with a shrug. "Something about the daughter marrying an American, I think. Andy would know."

"What would I know?" a deep male voice asked from the doorway and John glanced up to see their other host, dark eyes on his wife. "Sorry, love, didn't mean to startle you. I just came in for a cuppa. Whose daughter married an American?"

"The Graves'."

"Oh yeah. Back in the forties. Been up to the graveyard, have you? She came back and clear the place when her parents died, but she never sold it. That was in the early fifties, I think. After the war, who could afford to keep that kind of place? Or maybe she just couldn't be bothered."

"What was her name?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm, Amelia, or Adeline, maybe. Not quite sure."

"Did they only have the one child?" Sherlock enquired. "That seems odd for the time."

"There was a boy, too. Died in the war, I think. The daughter was the last heir to live there. Doubt her family even knows they own the place. No one goes up there except kids, messing around. It should be torn down."

"Do you know the son's name? Or the name of the American husband?"

"No, sorry," Andrew replied. "The archives would have all that info, though."

"Do you think whatever Henry did concerned the Graves?" Sarah asked. "I can't imagine they travelled in the same social circles."

"Or someone on staff at the house," Sherlock replied. "There should be records of who worked there, too."

"Could be," Andrew agreed, but he looked doubtful – whether to the existence of said records or their usefulness, John couldn't tell.

"Meredith runs the archive. It'll be closed today, but let me give her a ring," Sarah said. "For something like this, she won't mind spending the day there."

—

The woman John had been expecting – his age or older, greying hair, large spectacles, tweed skirt – was not the one who greeted them. He'd got the glasses right, but they were stylish – dark frames complementing long dark hair and fashionable clothing that still managed not to be too trendy for a Saturday morning. He'd been far off the mark with her age, too, and she couldn't have been a day over thirty-five. If that.

"I'm Meredith Kim," she said, extending a hand. "So good to meet you. I love the blog, Doctor Watson. And the website, Mister Holmes – that piece you wrote on aging paper from ink types was right up my street."

Sherlock managed to look mildly pleased – a small miracle in the face of a chatty stranger – and John grinned, shaking her hand.

"Call me John, please," he said. "And thanks."

"Sarah said you were interested in the graveyard," she replied, gesturing for them to enter. "I'll just put the kettle on."

"Where is the graveyard?" Sherlock asked as they followed her through the converted cottage. "The actual cemetery."

"There are several, but the one that's still in use is on the other side of town, behind the church. There are two more, small church ones, but they haven't been used since the early nineteen hundreds. If someone was buried here since then, they were buried up on the hill."

"Are the Graves buried there?"

"Most of them, yes. Not Eleanor, of course."

"Eleanor? The daughter?" Sherlock enquired.

"That's her. Milk and sugar?"

They took the proffered mugs and were ushered what had been the living room and now seemed to serve as an office and public study space. Aside from the books and magazines lining the wall – as John had expected – there were two computer work stations complete with dual monitors, scanners and printers.

"Almost everything about the house has been digitized, and there are some good photos – even colour ones – of the grounds before it fell into ruin. Whatever we have on it should be all in here…" Meredith pulled up a folder as Sherlock slid easily into the chair in front of the monitors. "There's a lot of local interest in the house."

"Yes, we noticed while up there," Sherlock said dryly, and Meredith grinned.

"Beyond the kids using it for parties," she replied. "And that's an old enough tradition in itself. The lists of servants haven't been entered yet – mostly just names and employment dates, no real personal information."

John accepted the bound volume Meredith pulled off a shelf and settled into a chair at the circular study table. The entries inside were all hand-written, even when the dates made it clear that a typewriter would have been a common option. He slipped his reading glasses on, squinting slightly at the faded letters written in neat cursive. It was obviously the work of several people – sometimes more than one person at the same time – but the penmanship was compact and tidy in all cases.

"Do you know the name of the American that Eleanor Graves married?" Sherlock asked.

"Sebastian Cole," Meredith replied. "He was some shipping magnate. In that he built ships, I mean, not that he shipped goods."

"Any chance he was born Henry Tate?"

"You're not the first person to ask that," Meredith said with a grin. John glanced at his husband, who met his eyes with a shrug in his gaze rather than in his actions. It _was_ an obvious question – but they were sometimes the least likely to get asked. "But no. Whatever Henry did, it wasn't running off to America and striking it rich. There are few other books that might have some information – I've just moved them to repair room. I won't be a moment."

Silence lapsed between them in her wake; John pulled out his notebook and began jotting down the names of the household and ground staff that had worked at the manor around the time Henry had vanished. Some thoughtful person had included the ages of new hires – at least the younger ones – giving him a good idea of who to focus on. It seemed unlikely that Henry would know any of the staff in positions of importance, but John jotted down their names anyway.

"These are county records of land ownership – there's a good section in here on which properties the Graves owned, what of value belonged to those tenants, rents, production, et cetera. And these…" she put a small box in front of John, "are some letters that came to us after Eleanor had the house cleared out. Mostly between her parents before they were married or shortly after, a few between her mother and some friends, and between her father and brother when her brother was at school. There are some photos in there, too. I've been working on scanning them – you wouldn't believe the interest in old love letters – but I haven't made a big dent yet, so it's easier to see everything here. Is there anything else you need?"

John glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head distractedly, already absorbed in the information on the monitor. He gave Meredith a slight smile, thanking her, and she left them in peace, only the faintest sounds of movement giving her work away from another room.

John kept jotting down names, flipping pages with care, skimming a gloved finger across the faded rows to make sure he was on track. It was hard to believe any one home had employed so many people – even having been there and having seen the size of the house and grounds.

A growl made him glance up; Sherlock was leaning back in the office chair, raking his fingers through his hair. Despite the obvious frustration, John took a moment to enjoy the view, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Useless!" the detective complained, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, dislodging his glasses somewhat. John sat back, removing his own, still smiling at the back of his husband's head. "And you can stop that."

"I'm smiling with you, not at you," John replied.

"Of course you are," Sherlock muttered, spinning in his chair to cast a sharp look his husband's way. "Tell me you've found something."

"There were five people who left around the same time Henry vanished, but at the end of May, not in the middle."

"Let me see," Sherlock ordered. John slid his notes across the table; Sherlock glared at them through his glasses, as if the lack of information was a personal offense.

"Ms. Kim!" he called. "There are a number of employees who left their jobs around the time Henry Tate disappeared, yet no reasons are listed for their departures. Were they investigated in relation to Henry?"

Meredith sat across from them, fingers interlaced and a small smile playing on her lips.

"They might have been, if there'd been any suggestion Henry had somehow been responsible for them being laid off. Houses like that were in decline," she said with a shrug. "They were never going to last, especially after the First World War, and as land was sold off, revenue dropped. They couldn't maintain the kinds of staff they had before."

"That couldn't have been very welcome news," John said. "Could one of them have stolen something – working with Henry maybe?"

"He went missing before they were fired," Sherlock pointed out.

"They would have had about a month's notice, so it's possible," Meredith contradicted, "only nothing was ever reported missing – and believe me, the police would have been alerted about it if it had. If it was someone still in the household, they might have dealt with it on their own, but even then… times were already changing. Probably not."

Sherlock sat back with a sigh, tossing his glasses on the table.

"You said the staff were let go as the lands were sold. What lands?"

Meredith raised an eyebrow, an amused smile tugging on her lips.

"Spot on as always," she commented. "Yes, the Tate's land was among them – but before you get too excited, it was sold to the Tates themselves. Hardly a reason to carry a grudge against the Graves."

"Let me see the deeds and sales," Sherlock ordered, accepting the book as it was handed across the table and slipping his glasses back over his nose.

—

The snap of another book being shut made John look up. Sherlock stood abruptly, glasses clattering on the table and paced the small breadth of the room, palms pressed together in front of his face.

"We're missing something," he muttered, gaze darting to John.

"Yeah," John agreed. "Lunch."

"Are we going to be derailed by your body's demands yet again?" his husband snapped. John repressed a grin as best he could, unable to keep the corners of his lips from twitching upward – which only strengthened the glare he was receiving in return.

"That wasn't my stomach growling audibly," he pointed out. "Besides, Henry disappeared ninety years ago. Taking a break now won't make him any less gone – never mind the fact that he's probably long dead by now."

Sherlock paused, cocking his head ever so slightly; John waited, eyebrows raised.

"Mycroft."

"Mycroft's going to feed us? We know it'll be a good spread then," John said.

"He can check the army records, John," his husband sighed, feigning being put upon in the way only he could. "Two years before the war, Henry was seventeen. Yes, it's highly likely that he's dead, and given his age at the time, it's even more probable that he died in the war."

"Well, if you can stomach calling your brother, be my guest," John replied, letting the grin out as he closed the book in front of him. "But right now, we both need a break, and we both need to eat. I'm a doctor; no arguing."

"I never argue," Sherlock sniffed.

"Yeah," John agreed, rolling his eyes with a smile. "Right."

—

"If you're having difficulties finding a cottage, I'm sure I could arrange for the purchase of a suitable one."

Sherlock subjected his phone to a dark glare, and deliberately ignoring John's silent snicker from beside him.

"Pay attention to the road, John," he snapped, pressing the phone against his ear to muffle the conversation from his grinning husband. "I think we're more than capable of finding our own home," he said, rolling his eyes at his brother's put upon sigh.

"By attempting to decode a mysterious ninety year old letter when all you've got to go on is a name?"

"All _you_ have to go on is a name, Mycroft. I've got considerably more information."

"Yes, I'm sure you do," Mycroft replied dryly and Sherlock had to bite his lower lip against a retort. "However, I'm _not_ sure what you think I can do for you."

A sigh gusted from Sherlock's lips as he tipped his head against the headrest. John's low chuckle made him shoot a sideways scowl at his husband, who was enjoying this far too much.

"Search your secret government records for said name. If there are any records of Henry Tate after his disappearance, you'll have access to them."

"Assuming he remained in the UK," his brother pointed out.

It smarted to admit that Mycroft had a point, so Sherlock didn't – at least not out loud.

"It gives you a starting point," he said coolly. "Be sure to contact me when you have any information."

He rung off, resisting the impulse to pitch the phone at the dash. John was still grinning as he parked the car in the B&B's small lot. The glower Sherlock gave him was completely ineffective.

"I can't think of what I might have done to deserve the both of you," he commented, succeeding only in making John laugh, brown eyes bright and crinkled around the edges.

"Sherlock, I could write you an entire list."

—

"I don't see what this is supposed to prove."

"The lighting may be important," Sherlock murmured. In the darkness, John rolled his eyes, trying not to stumble over roots and rocks that the light from his torch couldn't entirely illuminate.

_Should have known_, he told himself for the tenth time – over twenty years with Sherlock and he'd let himself wander headlong into this trap.

"_I can't see it."_

"_Mm?" John asked from behind a sip of wine, raising his eyes from the book propped against his knee._

"_The connection, John! It's right there! I can taste it."_

"_You can taste it," John repeated._

"_Given your tendency for embellishment, you should be willing to allow me this," Sherlock sniffed. He threw himself in a chair, glaring at John over the letters, the marked maps, and open books that lay spread between them on the coffee table._

"_Have you considered there might not be one?"_

"_Of course there is!" Sherlock retorted. "It's there, I've just got to find it."_

"_All we're going on is that the house is visible from the farm and that there's a set of old scratches on trees heading between them – and not the entire way between them."_

"_As assumption based on a lack of facts. We didn't follow the trail to both ends – it's more than likely we picked it up somewhere in the middle. We need to find the other end."_

"_It's past dark already," John pointed out. "It'll have to wait until morning. Unless you plan on us stumbling around in the dark."_

_A slow smile spread across Sherlock's lips as he pushed himself to his feet and John groaned, realization sinking in like a weight._

"_Get your coat," his husband said._

"What lighting?" John muttered, picking his way more carefully. Of course Sherlock was having no difficulties navigating the woody terrain in the darkness. Swallowing his pride, John put a hand on his husband's shoulder, using Sherlock for both stability and direction.

"Honestly," the detective huffed, glancing back, the motion little more than a shift in the shadows cast by the torchlight, "what sort of training does the army teach?"

"Generally not the kind that involves crawling around in the woods in the middle of the night looking for symbols carved on trees."

"We're neither crawling, nor is it the middle of the night," Sherlock said. "It's barely gone ten."

"Dark is dark," John replied. A curse was muffled by the sudden contact with Sherlock's coat when the detective stopped suddenly. "A little warning next time?"

"Hardly my fault you can't pay attention, John. Look." A complaint was swallowed when Sherlock swung the beam at the tree next to him. The symbols were thrown into stark contrast by the focused light, the same two sets of parallel vertical lines they'd been seeing the entire way down from the house.

"That's the last one," Sherlock said, directing his torch to skim the edge of the woods where it gave way to the field.

"It wouldn't have been back then," John said. _If Henry even made these_, he added silently, half wondering why Sherlock was so certain the boy had – and why he himself didn't doubt it much, either.

"No, but it is directing us to the farm," Sherlock replied. John followed the path of the torch beam; it wasn't nearly strong enough to illuminate the entire distance, but it was in the right direction. Sherlock's mental maps were unerring. Even in the darkness, he knew precisely where the farm lay.

It was easier walking across the field than through the woods, and they reached the derelict farm in only a few minutes. At a murmured command, John shut his torch off, plunging them both into darkness as Sherlock did the same. He stepped closer to the detective, using the proximity to judge Sherlock's movements while he's eyes adjusted, but his husband was still, gazing toward the house on the hill.

"There's a light in one of the windows," John hissed.

"First floor, southern wing," Sherlock murmured in reply. "There were fresh tyre tracks in the gravel, John. We weren't the only ones up there tonight."

"How'd they get up there, though?" John asked. "That staircase is a death trap."

"Back stairs," Sherlock suggested. "There was bound to be at set. Or a ladder up to the window. But a direct line of sight from this house to that one."

"Maybe they were signalling in semaphore," John suggested, pulling his coat more closely around him as the breeze picked up. Sherlock glanced down at him; John couldn't see the expression on his husband's face in the darkness, but he was sure he was getting a raised eyebrow for his sarcasm.

"Maybe," Sherlock said. He was silent a few minutes, and John shifted his weight from side to side, wanting to keep his blood moving. The air had more of a bite out here than it did in the shelter of the woods, and the thought of a hot drink back at the B&B sounded more appealing by the second.

"Let's go find the car," Sherlock said, and John let out a silent sigh of relief. "I need to go through those records again."


	4. Chapter 4

The aroma of hot coffee permeated the blissful semi-conscious haze, tugging Sherlock back to consciousness. A sigh slipped from his lips – it might have been a groan, but the thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of his skull prevented that.

With the coffee mug held between his hands, Sherlock closed his eyes again, happily pinned by John's touch and the heat from the drink seeping into his skin. He hummed contentedly and heard John chuckle, warm lips pressing against his forehead.

"What time is it?" Sherlock murmured.

"Nine-thirty," John replied.

"What?" The detective sat up quickly, taking care not to spill the coffee as he set it aside, swinging himself to standing. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't know I was supposed to," John said, folding his arms, a smile playing on his lips.

"The case, John! We don't have the time for lie ins!" Sherlock snapped. "We leave tomorrow–"

"And you were up until at least one in the morning trying to decode that letter," John interjected. Sherlock shot a scowl his husband's way, knowing it was very likely undermined by the state of his hair and the fact that he was still the sweatpants and t-shirt of John's he'd appropriated years ago. "So that's a good eight hours."

"I don't _need_ eight hours!"

"Must be all those sleepless nights catching up to you," John replied, an unwarranted twinkle of laughter in his eye. "You're not a young man anymore."

"What does that make you?" Sherlock retorted, but John refused to take the bait, only raising his eyebrows. He gave John another glower for good measure, then reclaimed the coffee, unwilling to let his expression show that the caffeine was welcome.

"I have work to do," he muttered.

"It's still downstairs," John said. "I'm afraid if we stay longer than tomorrow, you'll overrun the whole house."

"The work _matters_, John."

"Then go solve it," John replied, closing the distance between them to give Sherlock a quick kiss. He tasted of coffee, too – and bread. "The break probably did you good. I got them to save you some breakfast. Eating will help."

"So you always claim," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm a doctor. I know these things."

* * *

Sherlock had at least consented to dress and shave before reclaiming his spot in the guest library. A plate of scones and fruit sat next to him – and he was even eating it, if slowly and rather haphazardly.

_Eighteen years and _something's_ rubbed off,_ John thought with a rueful smile, helping himself to another cup of tea from the pot Sarah had delivered.

Sherlock was working in a stop motion way – longer periods of stillness interspersed with short bursts of activity. The map that Sarah had given them was marked up with notes scored with straight lines to cross them out, or scribbled over with corrections and additions. John enjoyed the sight of Sherlock pressing the end of a pen against his lips, chewing on it thoughtfully.

"Stop it," his husband said.

"Stop what?" John asked.

"I can practically hear you, John. Honestly, you've got a one-track mind."

"Coming from you?" John asked with a grin.

"I've got countless, all high velocity, and all currently occupied with this case. If you're going to sit there, you could at least be useful."

"What can I do?" John asked, setting his tea cup aside and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "What are _you_ doing?"

"Trying to match any of these local landmarks to references in the letter!" Sherlock snapped, tossing the pen on the table. "This wasn't a one-time code, John; it's too complicated! Henry and his accomplice _must_ have met somewhere, and it's unlikely that a farm boy like him would travel great distances from the village on a regular basis – especially without drawing suspicion!"

"What have you got so far?" John asked.

"Nothing!" Sherlock snarled. "Symbols and initials that repeat themselves don't translate into any of the prominent landmarks near here and–" He stopped abruptly, the corners of his grey eyes twitching as they narrowed, the flicker of a frown creasing his features. John bit his lip against a question; one of Sherlock's mental trains had just changed tracks, and he knew better than to derail it by speaking.

There was a suspended, breathless moment before Sherlock moved again, scribbling illegibly on the notepad John had leant him, bottom lip caught in his teeth. John wanted to remind him to breathe but still kept silent, and Sherlock let out a sharp gust of air, sitting back abruptly, eyes fixed on the letter.

"What?" John asked, judging it was safe to talk.

"Translate," Sherlock replied, eyes moving to meet John's gaze. "I said they don't translate into the names of any of the landmarks near here." John frowned slightly, nodding, his palms sliding absently over one another. "But they do, John. Quite literally. This letter is written in French."

* * *

"What?"

"Give me your phone."

John fumbled for his mobile, passing it across the small table. Sherlock pulled up the most recent photograph of the symbols carved in the woods and sketched it on a blank note page.

"So?" John asked. His question wasn't quite ignored; Sherlock drew two horizontal lines linking the vertical ones – one on top, one underneath – then pulled out his own phone.

"Check French records. And Belgian ones, just to be on the safe side," he ordered, probably before Mycroft had a chance to speak, then rung off, tossing his phone heedlessly on the table.

"How do you know it's in French?" John pressed.

"I told you, the landmarks." Sherlock spun the letter around to face John, tapping the pen against the letters _BM_. "I've been trying to match up the names on the map with initials in the letter. I couldn't, because they're translated. Here, John. Marion Wood. In French, _bois Marion._ Or 'BM'. The landmark closest to Henry's home, and that separated the farm from the manor house."

"But how would someone like Henry learn to speak French?"

"How indeed?" Sherlock murmured. "Of the inhabitants of this area at that time, whom do you suppose _would_ speak French?"

"The Graves, probably."

"Precisely."

"The daughter? Eleanor? But Meredith said she married an American named Sebastian Cole who wasn't Henry Tate."

"Wasn't he?" Sherlock asked. "I wonder, did anyone here ever meet Mister Cole? If so, were they meeting the real Mister Cole? Perhaps he didn't want his identity to be known to those back home."

"That's insane," John protested. "Why go to all that trouble?"

"To cover up whatever crime they committed," Sherlock replied. "We may have the answer right here."

"It's still all in code," John said.

"And now that I know it's in French, there are half a dozen abbreviated words that I recognize. This is a personal shorthand, John – it's not as complicated as a professional one."

"Except it's in another language."

"That doesn't make it complex," Sherlock murmured in reply, bent over the letter again. "Ring Meredith, have her come here. She has information we need. Do it outside; I need to concentrate."

* * *

"Cracked it, has he?" Meredith asked as she shut her car door. John grinned, hands in his pockets, giving a slight shrug.

"He says he has." She raised an eyebrow at him, and John beckoned her to follow. "He wants to interrogate you – which he'd call asking you a few questions. It can be an interesting experience. But at least there's tea."

She laughed, falling into step behind him and greeting Sarah and Andrew warmly once inside the house. Sherlock was glowering impatiently at the small talk, but the warning look John shot him was at least enough to keep him quiet about it.

"Tell me about the Graves children," the detective insisted as soon as Meredith had claimed a seat and had been given a cup of tea.

"Ah– well there two of them. Eleanor, of course, and Avery. She was the elder of the two, by a couple of years, I think."

"And she was Henry Tate's age?"

"No," Meredith said, frowning slightly. "I think Avery was closer to his age – not that it would have been a big difference between Eleanor and Henry. But I've told you, they didn't run off together. A lot of people have looked into Sebastian Cole – he was _definitely_ not Henry."

Sherlock tapped his pen impatiently against the map; he'd circled both the farm and manor houses, and drawn a line between them, approximately where the path of the carved symbols lead up the hill.

"But they were both educated. Eleanor and Avery."

"I imagine so," she agreed. "Avery went to Eton, I think. Eleanor went to Roedean, but she'd finished by the time Henry vanished, if my dates are right."

"Were either of the children ever questioned about Henry's disappearance?"

"I can't imagine they would have been," Meredith said. "The police at the time certainly wouldn't have thought there would be a connection. And Avery had already gone by then, of course."

John frowned, seeing the expression mirrored on his husband's face – and on that of his hosts.

"I thought the boy died in the war," Andrew said. "'Thirty-seven was too early for that."

"Could he have already been enlisted?" John asked. "Maybe died on some other overseas campaign?"

Meredith's eyes slid between them, darkened slightly with confusion.

"If Avery Graves was ever in the army, his family certainly didn't know about it. He ran off in 1936 – and not like that," she said, nodding to the letter Henry had written his sister, which lay unfolded on the table next to the coded missive. "He stole a number of extremely expensive pieces of jewellery from his mother – not to mention some very valuable family silver – and vanished."

* * *

"No one thought it necessary to mention that?" Sherlock snapped as John was still catching up.

"Neither of us knew," Andrew pointed out, earning a glare for his efforts, and Meredith shook her head.

"And it was never linked to Henry's disappearance," she added.

"Who else would have taught him French?" Sherlock demanded.

"We hardly knew the letter was in French," she replied, arching a dark eyebrow. John caught the gleam of amusement in her eye and was relieved she wasn't offended. "Even if it _was_ from Avery, how would Henry have had anything to do with that? Avery vanished in October of 1936, Henry eight months later."

"They were meeting in the woods," Sherlock stressed.

"Or Henry was meeting Eleanor," Meredith sighed. "Or it was the three of them. But do you imagine Avery lived through the winter in the woods? A boy like that? Besides, someone was bound to notice him, even if he tried to stay hidden the entire time."

"Henry refers to a crime in his letter," John pointed out.

"And the police – or his family – would have noticed the sudden appearance of silver and jewels. Or money for that matter."

"It may have been pre-arranged," Sherlock insisted. "Have one of them stay behind, deflect suspicion."

"Why?" Meredith asked. Sherlock made a disgusted noise, tossing his pen on the table and slumping against the back of his chair.

"Henry might have been able to travel more freely without being associated with Avery. Everyone would have known Avery had executed the theft – but would anyone have suspected a farm boy's involvement? How would they have known each other?"

"Good question," Meredith replied.

"There's a clear trail between the farm and the manor."

"That doesn't explain how they knew each other," she said. "Nor why Avery would need or want Henry's help. What resources would he have had that Avery didn't – or couldn't get access to?"

"You've jumped from Eleanor to Avery pretty quickly," Sarah pointed out. "And to the idea that the trail was made by those two boys."

"A letter in French and the outline of the French or Belgian flag on the trees?" Sherlock demanded.

"Or the Roman numeral two twice – or just a symbol," Sarah said.

"The letter's written half in symbols," John pointed out. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Sarah, and John smirked inwardly at the expression. He wasn't sure Sherlock was right, but he had no idea if his husband was wrong, either.

And the detective _had_ managed to decode part of the letter for the first time in almost a century.

"John," Sherlock said, in what John recognized as his dictatorial tone, "Go online – find anything and everything you can about Avery Graves or Henry Tate. Ms. Kim, I need anything you've got in the archives – newspaper articles, letters, police reports. Anything."

"What will you be doing?" Meredith asked with a wry smile. Sherlock sniffed slightly, deigning to give her a cool glance.

"Decoding the letter," he replied. "At least _someone_ should be making some progress."

* * *

John gave a low whistle. The sound caught Sherlock's attention but the doctor shook his head quickly. His husband wouldn't care about the items Avery Graves had stolen – it was only the crime that mattered.

That and somehow linking Henry Tate to the whole thing.

But the copy of the police report that Eleanor Graves had donated to the archives, along with the rest of her family papers, contained detailed descriptions and even faded photographs of the stolen goods. John had a decent imagination – despite whatever Sherlock would contend – and he could picture the jewellery in all its glory without much effort.

Whatever it had been worth, Avery could have lived comfortably on the proceeds from the sale for a long time.

"It's a bit extreme," he said.

"Running away from home with something valuable?" Sherlock replied without looking up from the letter. "What child doesn't threaten it at some point?"

John snorted, a grin spreading across his lips.

"They don't usually follow through – and not at the age of seventeen. What did you threaten to take?"

"A katana a Japanese diplomat had given my father."

"I bet that went over well."

"My mother told me I was more than welcome to take it. She hated it."

"What happened?" John asked.

"I was five," Sherlock replied. "I couldn't carry it, and Mycroft told me they'd never allow it on the train."

John chuckled, the sound mixing with the distant laughter from the dining room, where their hosts and Meredith had retreated once banished by Sherlock. Sarah had delivered dinner to them in the study; Sherlock had eaten – more or less – under John's watchful eye, before abandoning the food in favour of the work.

"You?" his husband asked.

"What, you can't just deduce it?"

"I'm busy," Sherlock sniffed.

"I don't remember," John said honestly. "I do know I was going to take Harry and go to Southend-on-Sea."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Because it was the furthest I'd ever been and the only place other than London whose name I knew. I was six."

His husband rolled his eyes, then glanced pointedly at the temporarily abandoned work that lay on the table. John sighed, the expression tempered by the smile on his lips, and turned back to his task.

He hadn't got anywhere with the internet search, as proficient as he'd become in those over the years. There were no news articles in the files Meredith had brought; it seemed that the Graves had managed to keep this out of the papers. John didn't blame them – the way gossip worked, the whole village would have known, and probably most of the people in the Graves' social circle.

If Henry had been involved, he would have had to listen to that gossip for half a year before he vanished. John wondered what that would have been like – then idly entertained the idea that it was Eleanor he'd been meeting, maybe after Avery's disappearance. Had she been seeking solace after her brother had become a thief?

But that didn't explain why a farm boy had been associated with either of the Graves children.

Or _if_ he had been.

With an inward sigh, John turned back to the reports, trying to coax some scrap of information out of them that would link Henry Tate to this whole thing. The doubts he'd always had were growing stronger; chewing on his lower lip helped refocus him on the files. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate him shirking his duties – fruitless as they may be.

"Oh." The word was little more than an inhalation, a stunned response that matched the expression John saw when he glanced up. Wide grey eyes, parted lips, startled gaze fixed on the letter.

"Sherlock," John murmured when the detective didn't give any indication of explaining.

"We were wrong, John," Sherlock said, eyes sliding from the letter to meet the doctor's gaze.

"About what?" John asked.

"This isn't a conspiracy," his husband replied, thumb flexing just enough to impress a small fold in the sheets, drawing John's attention briefly to the much-handled pages. "It's a love letter."


	5. Chapter 5

"So it _was_ Eleanor," John said, leaning back in his chair, half disbelieving they'd been on the right track – more or less – most of the time.

"No," Sherlock replied, shaking his head slightly. "This was written by Avery. To Henry."

"What?"

"The theft wasn't the crime – not Henry's crime anyway. It was this. Listen: 'My dearest Henry – It has all been arranged. After all this time. I can scarcely believe it, and I wish I could tell you in person, but I dare not. This will have to do.

"'I've left you money for travel in Marion Wood, buried in the usual spot. It is enough to get you there, and to buy you whatever else you might need along the way. Spend it wisely, love, for I've no means of getting you more during your journey. Should you need more before you leave, get a message to _M_, who will see to it you have whatever else you need."

"Who's M?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, tapping his pen against his lower lip.

"I don't know," he said. "Not yet."

"_Someone_ knew they were going."

"Obvious," Sherlock replied.

"They ran off together," John murmured, raising his eyebrows.

"Eight months apart, and not for the reasons we thought, but yes."

"Where?" John asked. "Were you right about France?"

"I can't tell," Sherlock replied. "Their destination isn't named specifically." John moved to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair, one hand resting lightly between his partner's shoulder blades as he leaned forward slightly to listen.

"'You know where to go – all but the address. As I write this, I don't know it either; strange to think neither of us will know when you read this. But you will as soon as I do. The message may come to you by other means – be waiting for it, my love, and don't neglect to check the woods. _M_ may leave it there, if no other option presents itself.'"

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt.

"'All has been arranged in London, but don't tarry there, as it will not be entirely safe. No doubt someone will think to link us, if only for two abrupt disappearances, and we are beyond neither the law nor my father's arm in the city.

"'When the time comes, do not delay.' It dissolves into romantic hogwash from there," Sherlock snorted and John grinned, reaching to pluck the translated letter from his husband's hands. Sherlock gave him a mild scowl but let him read it; John kicked his heel absently against the side of the chair, his smile fading as he read the final words on the page.

He wondered what it would be like, writing a letter like this, knowing he'd be separated from someone he loved for the better part of a year. Knowing that loving someone was cutting him off from his family – very likely forever. Having to decide which was worth it, and losing one no matter what the choice.

Sherlock's presence next to him – against him – suddenly felt starkly real, no longer the familiar and comfortable constant he'd grown used to over nearly two decades, but something fragile and indescribably precious. Something that in another lifetime, he might never have had.

Not without giving up everything else.

John shook himself back to the present, closing his eyes and pressing a kiss into his husband's curls.

"I'll get the others. They'll want to see this."

* * *

The house was nearly as full of furniture and books – and now Sherlock's notes and papers – as was their flat, but without the added benefit that he could walk on it or throw it into disarray like he could at home.

At least, not without John giving him a Look.

Avoiding John's Looks was important, particularly in company, and _especially_ if they were staying under someone else's roof. The confinement – both physical and mental – chaffed. He needed to _move_. To really think, he needed the sounds of the city. The chairs and coffee tables he could step on. The door he could fling open to holler for Mrs. Hudson. The pavement under his feet, the ease of hailing a cab.

They were at the mercy of the countryside here. No web of city streets and alleyways to walk, nothing but a rental car. The village was small enough to cross in fifteen minutes on foot – and he may have done it, if only to move and think, but not for the villagers themselves. He was a stranger here, in a town of familiar faces; gone was the relative anonymity that let him move through a crowd unheeded (except for those who recognized him thanks to John's blasted blog).

Sherlock had tried insisting on going back to the Graves' house, and John had given him a Look.

He could have taken the car and gone himself, but it wasn't just London he needed in order to think. It was John, and his husband's presence was more vital the further removed they were from the city.

But John considered the case solved. The idea was so baffling that Sherlock ran up against it uncomprehending each time the words formed themselves in his mind.

How could the case be solved? They had one fact. One simple, solitary fact. Henry Tate had run off with Avery Brooks because they'd been lovers.

John thought that was enough. So did Sarah and Andrew, and Meredith the archivist. There had been questions, of course. There had been predictable exclamations about "those poor boys" – as though a young man with a small fortune's worth of treasure could be considered poor. There had been discussion – seemingly endless discussion – about the details.

All of which had resulted in nothing. No amount of dissection of the family names had resulted in any hint of whom _M_ might be. Not the sister, whose middle name was Catherine, after her mother. Not the father, George, from whom Avery had received his middle name.

Friends were a possibility – friends of Avery's – but even if it were the case, they'd never know. No letters between him and any friend had been donated to the archives, no list of his contacts from his years at Eton.

There _had_ been a crime, and not the crime of which Henry had thought himself guilty. Technically illegal at the time, yes, but the law occasionally required a pragmatic frame of mind. It had driven him away – although _to_ where remained unknown; Mycroft had been unforthcoming with any information regarding their ultimate whereabouts.

_The_ crime had been the theft from the mother. Stealing into a dressing room when everyone was otherwise occupied, relieving her of the money he would need to survive on his own. Pausing on his way out in the middle of the night to add some silver to the collection. Perhaps some servant had helped him, let him know the coast was clear to enter his mother's room, to leave the house, but that same servant could scarcely be the mysterious _M._

It had to have been someone with access to funds. Someone with whom Henry could make contact if needed.

John had reread the letter as Sherlock prowled the too-small confines of the guest sitting room, winding down mental pathways that were always dead ends. John had that sympathetic, sad look to him – twin lines drawn up his forehead from his nose, a downward tilt to his lips, a sombre light in his eyes. Feeling badly for two people long dead.

Making a _personal_ connection because yes, John _would_ see it that way, despite the clear differences between now and then. But he'd put himself in Avery's shoes – or Henry's. To what end? What did it accomplish?

There was still a crime, and they knew the why of it – but the _why_ was never as fascinating as the _how_.

So Sherlock paced and chaffed at the physical restriction and swallowed another demand that they go back to the abandoned house, where he'd have space to move – to _think_ – because John would say no and very logically point out that it was dangerous there. The pavement outside was available for walking, he'd say, but he didn't understand the need to be in the place, to understand the way a now-empty house would have shaped the events.

His abrupt stop drew John's gaze from the book he'd settled on; Sherlock ignored him, eyes narrowing as they swept over the room.

"What are you doing?" his husband demanded, question unanswered as Sherlock slithered under an unoccupied chair, checking the maker's mark, then nudged his husband's legs aside so he could investigate that chair as well. "Sherlock, what the hell?"

He scrambled up, dusting himself off absently, checking the tables and lamps, dragging the desk from the wall to look for stamps or engravings. There was a snap as John shut his book, the faint sound of an inhalation that preceded a demand that he stopped – and that Sherlock silenced by calling Sarah's name.

"What is it?" she asked, coming into the sitting room, momentarily alarmed at the beginnings of disarray.

"This house. You said you bought it twelve years ago. Where did you get the furniture?"

"Um– most of it were already owned," she replied. "Some is Andy's, some is mine. Whatever else we needed – beds and dressers, mostly – we bought. Why is it important?"

"Where did you buy it?" Sherlock demanded.

"Shops," she replied, casting John a look over Sherlock's shoulder – he didn't have to see the helpless shrug in return to know John had given it. "Some new, some from antique shops. Why?"

"Anything from the Graves' house?"

"Well – no. Eleanor cleared that out in the fifties; you heard Meredith, and you've been there. There's nothing there but an empty house."

"You said some of this is yours – do you mean your family's?"

"I didn't inherit all of it," she said. "But some, yes."

"Did they get any of it from Eleanor?"

"I can hardly see why they would have – even with the letter. It's not as though they knew. It was a crime back then but now… if my grandmother had known anything, she would have told us. Andy's been interested in that letter since we met, and I know she missed Henry. She talked about it, sometimes."

"What if it wasn't Eleanor?" Sherlock demanded.

"Who else would have sold anything to my family?" Sarah asked. "It all belonged to her."

"It didn't always – and I'm not talking about selling. Who is _M_?"

She looked startled at the sudden change in topic, and Sherlock caught John's frown out of the corner of his eye.

"Someone Avery knew – and someone he trusted enough with his secret. Who would help Henry with funds to leave if needed? Who had access to that kind of money? Someone who _knew_ when he could access those jewels, when he could leave the house. Someone who wanted to _protect _him."

"But there was no one with the initial _M_ in his family," Sarah said. "Meredith even checked for other family members, but there weren't any living there."

"There's no _M_ for us – but there would been for him. Think!"

Sarah started slightly, but there was a sharp inhalation from John.

"His mother. '_Mother_'. That's what he'd call her. Not Catherine. It was her jewels he took. He would have needed to know where they were and when to get at them. The easiest way would have been to get them directly from her. "

"But she reported the theft!" Sarah protested.

"What choice would she have had?" Sherlock replied. "Like Henry's delayed departure, it was a deflection. Draw attention away from the truth – by accusing him of stealing her belongings, she hid one crime with another."

"What if he'd been caught?" Sarah asked.

"This was planned. The letter's proof enough of that – not just a plan between Henry and Avery, but one that involved someone Avery trusted. Enough to divulge this secret, and to trust she'd help Henry if he needed it to. Who better? A father at that time wouldn't have been a reliable choice – and he's clear enough about his father's opinions. Eleanor was only two years his senior. Difficult to predict her reaction based on what little we know. But a mother _will_ love her children, won't she?"

"I should hope so," Sarah replied. "Usually anyway."

"If it was her, would the contact have stopped? She might even have known where they'd gone."

"If she did, we don't," John pointed out. "Meredith would have said something about letters from Avery to Catherine if they'd been in the things Eleanor had donated."

"Why would they have been?" Sherlock asked. "Where would you keep something like that? Something that implicates you in the crime your own child has committed?"

"I'd burn them," Sarah said.

"Would you?" Sherlock asked sharply. She drew back slightly, then shook her head.

"I suppose not."

"Hide them," John replied.

"But here?" Sarah asked. "How would that even be possible? It's not as though she knew I was going to be born and inherit my grandmother's letter and move into this house."

"Not this house," Sherlock snapped. "Not even you. Eleanor emptied the big house after her father died. Meredith said Catherine moved to London – but there would scarcely have been room in a flat in the city – or even a house – for all her possessions to go with her."

"But why would she send anything of Avery's to my family? Why wouldn't she just take it with her?"

"Safe keeping. Your family had become her family after a fashion, and perhaps she didn't trust her daughter with the information. Why not pass on the evidence to someone who didn't know they had it?"

"Why wouldn't it have been safe with her?" John asked.

"She didn't outlive her husband by long," Sherlock replied. "And whatever she owned would become Eleanor's when Catherine died."

"She was still protecting her son," Sarah said. "Even after she died."

"But that doesn't mean there's anything _here_," John said. "It could be anywhere."

"What did you inherit from your family?" Sherlock demanded.

"Um– mostly dinnerware and silverware, some crystal wineglasses–"

"Furniture!" he snapped, ignoring the slightly startled look. "Anywhere something might be hidden and stored!"

"Those chairs and tables," Sarah managed, nodding at the sitting room furniture. "Books, I suppose, and–"

The answer leapt into his mind, swallowing her words, and John's voice was carrying up the stairs after him, disregarded as Sherlock took them two at a time. It was mere seconds before they were behind him, but he was already in their rented bedroom, kneeling on the floor where the rug met the hardwood.

"And this trunk," he said, skimming his fingers over the surface, searching for irregularities his eyes couldn't see. "The mark is an old one – a designer popular in Paris and London in the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds. Not something you'd find in just any antique shop – and not something you'd pick up for cheap. Not now, and certainly not then. But if you didn't know…. You might use it for storing blankets in a guest room and think nothing of it."

"But there's nothing in there except blankets!" Sarah protested as said blankets were evicted unceremoniously. A quick visual measurement of the interior was confirmed by the hollow feel and sound beneath his knuckles rapping on the false bottom.

"Get me a crowbar or a screwdriver, whatever you've got," he demanded. Sarah hesitated the barest of moments before hurrying out the door. "John, help me."

Working it together was no more productive than on his own, but Sarah returned with a tool chest – and Andrew in tow. John took Sherlock's direction without question, hissing triumphantly when the false bottom began to give, clattering slightly as it tilted. They drew it out, John setting it aside as Sherlock pulled out a thin box and a dust-encrusted packet of letters. The papers and the string binding them were brittle enough to be left for Meredith – no sense destroying what little evidence there was – but the box had held up well enough.

He eased the lid off just as his phone buzzed in his pocket, drawing a faint scowl.

"John," he ordered, and the doctor lifted his eyebrows, but fished out the mobile expertly anyway, ignoring the message on the screen in favour of the contents of the box.

It was a picture frame, coated in dust, the black leather backing paled to a worn grey. Sherlock turned it over gingerly, ignoring Sarah's gasp and Andrew's quiet curse.

"That's them, isn't it?" John murmured, gaze on the two men smiling back at them from the faded photograph. Sherlock removed the backing carefully; the seal had preserved the woman's handwriting well.

_Avery and Henry – Marseille, Autumn 1946_

Wordlessly, he handed the photograph to Sarah; there were tears glistening, unshed, in her eyes, and her husband was shaking his head in disbelief, lower lip caught in his teeth.

"What does Mycroft have to say?" he asked. The shock on John's face was evident in his actions; he fumbled slightly with the phone, but there was no more impatience for the knowledge – there was little Mycroft could say that they didn't now know.

"Death certificates," his husband replied, voice edged somehow with disappointment for a fact that was hardly a surprise. "Henry Tate, the fifteenth of November, 2015, and Avery Graves, the twenty-seventh of December of the same year."

"Well, we could hardly expect them to still be alive," Sarah pointed out, the reasonableness of her tone undermined only by the slightest of tremors.

John paused, scrolling down through the message, before a smile spread over his face like a beacon. He passed the phone to Sherlock, who read it, eyebrows raised. The thought of Mycroft's aggrieved reaction to the dramatism made Sherlock smile.

The last document his brother had included was a marriage certificate, dated to the nineteenth of May, 2013. A day after it became legal in France – and seventy-six years to the day after Henry wrote that letter to his sister and vanished into the night to rejoin his lover.


	6. Epilogue

The train station was busy enough to support the line of taxis that idled on the street outside. It might have been quicker to catch a cab, but his heart was racing, the tenuous hope caught in his chest, keeping his breathing shallow. He had nothing but a single suitcase and a scrap of paper with a hastily scrawled address.

The rustiness of his French had vanished after the first day on the train; he spoke with an accent but with confidence, and if the smiling woman who gave him directions asked him to repeat himself, it was only because of the rush of the words.

The pavement clicked under his shoes – he'd worn his best suit, the one he'd purchased in London during the single day he'd allowed himself to spend there. Hard to believe it had only been a week; it seemed like a lifetime when he thought of it now, mind racing ahead of his steps as he scanned building numbers and street names.

Time seemed to slow when he turned onto the final street, even as his pace quickened, fingers tingling now with nervous anticipation. The numbers on the houses blurred by; he checked and rechecked the paper, counting up to 519.

It was no different than the rest of them – nestled between two nearly identical homes on either side, although the numbers on the door seemed to gleam more brightly in the Marseille sun, as if they'd been polished so as to be noticeable. He stood on the pavement for a moment, heart in his throat, checking the paper again, just to make sure.

Would there be staff? There was enough money for it and it seemed likely, even if he'd never imagined having people to take care of him or his home. The thought startled him, made him hesitate – he didn't know if he could speak to a stranger.

Not here. Not right now.

He half doubted he'd be able to speak at all.

Steeling himself with a harsh breath, he rapped smartly on the door, the knocker warm against his fingers, heated gently by the sun. The sound of footsteps from inside was almost immediately – someone had been waiting close by. The door was drawn open quickly; he blinked, adjusting to the lower light inside. The relief that it wasn't some faceless French valet made him weak, but he gave himself no chance to waver. He couldn't wait even a single second more.

After all this time, he was here. It was real. The dreams, the plans, the desperate schemes – they'd call collided in this moment and he thought if he didn't step through the door, they'd snap, leave him blinking himself awake into a reality that would be terrible for not being this one.

"You made it," he heard – in English, in that familiar voice he'd imagined and re-imagined for months, training himself not to forget it, telling himself _soon_ over and over until the moment he'd written the letter to Elizabeth with a shaking hand. His hands cupped a well-known jawline as the door was pushed shut behind them, plunging them into a warm semi-darkness.

Henry inhaled a shared breath, erasing the space between them, Avery's fingers fisting into his hair, pulling him closer, mouth opening under his. The relief made his knees weak again, but Avery kept him up, grip sure despite his trembling hands.

"It's all right, Henry." The words were whispered, nearly lost to the frantic joy, the overwhelming relief. "You're home."


End file.
